


The Stolen Stradivarius

by chromission



Series: Catch Me If You Can [1]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Buzzfeed Unsolved True Crime, Detective Noir, Detectives, I dunno where this is going, M/M, No it's not the start of a romcom, Or it it?, bfu, buzzfeed unsolved au, i might edit this, it's 4 in the morning and i'm dead, low key crack, more characters should be appearing sooner or later, ricky being a little shit, shyan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 03:47:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14096544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chromission/pseuds/chromission
Summary: The 90s was a decade to remember.For the infamous Ricky Goldsworth and the more-than-competent C.C. Tinsley finally meet in the flesh and in a rather compromising position.Much to Tinsley's chagrin, this encounter will be the first of many.





	The Stolen Stradivarius

**Author's Note:**

> This will be an the introductory fic for what will sorta be an anthology surrounding Goldsworth and Tinsley 's game of cat and mouse.
> 
> There were times where I felt like turning this into a full blown crack fic.
> 
> This particular story is based on a real theft. See the notes at the end for details ;)

 

1995

Manhattan

23:38

 

Just on the edge of where the beam of the post light ends, is a man in tactical pants and a henley, standing on the sidewalk with a cup of soda in a gloved hand.

He takes a long sip as he commits the lifeless house before him to memory.

 

It's a quaint neighborhood, well maintained and cozy.

 

His free hand rests on his hip as he continues to down his drink. Long slurps punctuate the calm night air. His face bears boredom and a tinge of regret. His eyes lower to the source of his annoyance.

 

“I should have gotten a smaller cup.”

After a few awkward seconds, the straw finally offered air and he quickly ditched the empty cup into a neighbouring trashcan. He strides across the road and onto the small path cutting through the lawn of the empty house. Once on the porch, he produces a key out of his pocket and slides it into the keyhole. The sweet clink of the door unlocking echoes. The man’s face breaks out a relaxed grin as he turns the knob-

                                                               

 

 

_Apologies for the interruption, dear reader, but we must revisit our henley wearing mystery man a few months prior to this._

_You'll be surprised to find him sporting a bushy mustache and a pair of Moscots while drinking a glass of  wine bearing a name with a gratuitous amount of syllables._

_In place of tactical pants are tailored trousers and a matching suit jacket encasing a cushion stuffed shirt that gives his belly a pudgier look._

_He would remind you of your strange_ _pseudointellectual uncle who would overdress for barbecue  parties._

_That day, however, was the perfect day to wear an itchy fake mustache and a false beer belly._

_For it was the day he etched the figure of a 1727 ‘Davidoff’ Stradivarius violin into his brain as it was being held out for him to examine._

_You see dear reader, our man has the proclivity for theatrics. Therefore it was only reasonable to have him set out an elaborate  scheme of befriending Erica Morini, a legendary violinst, to see her most treasured belongings_

_and steal it._

 

Here he is, making his way up the stairs of Erica’s home. He slithers into her bedroom and spots a china cabinet. With giddy little waggling fingers, he opens to find the case containing the prized violin.

 

 _Like taking a lollipop from a baby!_ he told  himself.

 

_For full disclosure, dear reader. It was in fact taking a 3.5 million dollar violin from a dying old lady._

A quarter of an hour is left before 1am. He now ma-

_____

 

- _scratch frame-_

_Alas, dear reader, I must intrude once more to rewind this further back to just over a year ago._

_Somewhere in West Virginia, a lanky P.I. going by the name C.C. Tinsley sourly flips through a thin scrapbook full on documents and newspaper clippings of cases he solved._

_Well sure he solved them, but all due credit has been lathered on his vulture of a colleague, detective Brent Bennet._

_Though, Tinsley has found something to label the cases that litter the scrapbook as small-fry._

_For he’s had sights on an infamous faceless con._

_He snaps the book shut and tosses it in the trashcan. He swings his chair around to face the wall behind him and as he stands up, his eyes scan over the photographs and red yarn crisscrossing over ths bulletin board. His attention hovers over the haphazard array of newspapers clippings pinned beneath the red yarn._

_He darts between the words._

_“unidentified”_

_“haux”_

_“...nothing but an urban legend...”_

_“murdered?”_

_“some dumb name, witness says”_

_“thief”_

_“wore a bright_ _purple fedora”_

_“baffling”_

_“borrowed my lawnmower and never gave it back..”_

_And finally, in the centre of it all, every strand of red yarn met on a cut out picture of a cartoon burglar with beady eyes. At this point, Tinsley expects his faceless goon to look just like it. Underneath the picture was a name circled with a red pen._

_Tinsley stares at the name and narrows his eyes before muttering,_

_“What are you, Ricky Goldsworth?”_

 

* * *

“I’m a fucking genius!”

 

The man with the stolen violin snickers to himself.  He’s sitting crosslegged on the floor of his hotel room, dressed in pyjamas while admiring the priceless instrument.

A knock raps on his door. A muffled voice slips past its wood.

 

“Room service!”

 

His eyes shoot up and scran the room. He closes the violin’s case and slides it under his bed. He gets up to approach the voice.

Upon reaching the door, he takes a look through the peephole to see a figure from only the neck down beside a trolley cart.

 

“I didn’t ask for room service”

 

The attendant steps back and scratches the back of his neck.

 

“Oh gosh, well-”

 

Before the attendant could finish his sentence, the door opens. The violin thief assess the man before him. He notices the man by the trolley had way too much leg and wore a pair of clear glasses perched on his nose. 

 

“Does this mean you still want the- ” the attendant motions to the carts carrying a bucket of ice and champagne.

 

“Yeah, sure”

 

As he steps back to allow the attendant to push the cart through the doors, he rests his hand over a syringe he kept between the back of his pyjama’s garter. He pulls it out and pops the cover off, letting it fall to the carpet.

 

The attendant pushes the cart right by the end of the mattress. He crouches down to pull out a flute glass. As he gets on one knee, he spots a leather case under the bed. He realizes that the hotel guest caught where his eyes went.

 

“I won't need the glass”

 

The attendant slowly rises to his feet, keeping his hand in the trolley and away from view. His guest knew better though and went on to forcefully push the trolley away. The attendant accidentally drops the pair of handcuffs he concealed between the champagne glasses.

 

Before any of them know it, a syringe is impaled in the attendant’s neck. His eyes go wide in panic and quickly tries to yank it out, but he realizes that his arms won’t listen to him. He feels light and heavy at the same time. The room appeared to shrink.

 

“God damn it, Golds-”

 

“Don’t worry C.C.” came a muffled voice he realized was right before him. He notices that his badge is in Goldsworth’s hands.

 

“It's just a sedative, detective. So don’t give yourself a stroke.” 

Ricky’s foot makes contact with a something metal on the floor. He picks it up and dangles it in front of his face. He lets out a snort.

 

“Oooh, kinky. You treat all your guests like this?”

 

“Oh, piss off….” Tinsley slurs. All he could see is the pale ceiling and bouts of black from his blinking.

 

For the first time in C.C. Tinsley’s career, he proceeds to sleep on the job.

 

Just on the edge of where the beam of the lamp light ends, is Ricky in his blue PJs, standing at the foot of the bed with a bottle of champagne in hand.

He takes a long swig as he commits the limp body before him to memory.

 

 

 

 

 

 _-To be continued_  -

**Author's Note:**

> Where and when will we see our boys next? It might be in a sketchy lawless town, a gambling den or maybe a retirement home with some chamomile tea.
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> Erica Morini was praised as “probably the greatest woman violinist who ever lived” and the “most bewitching woman violinist of the (20th) century”  
> On October 18, 1995, it was discovered that her 272-year-old Davidoff Stradivarius had been stolen from her home. Erica was at a hospital at the time. She was never told of the theft before dying at the age of 91, just two weeks after the crime.
> 
> Read up on it [here](https://tarisio.com/cozio-archive/property/?ID=40119) and [here](https://www.thedailybeast.com/who-stole-erica-morinis-dollar35-million-stradivarius-violin)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Catch Me If You Can](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040954) by [Echo_4127](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echo_4127/pseuds/Echo_4127)




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